


To Give All (the Love) That He Can

by sariagray



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Christmas, Explicit Language, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-29
Updated: 2012-03-29
Packaged: 2017-11-02 16:13:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/370905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sariagray/pseuds/sariagray
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Getting ready for the holidays, Ianto once again proves himself to be a liar and a manipulator. But it’s okay, because this time it’s kind of adorable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Give All (the Love) That He Can

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by analineblue. Title comes from the David Bowie/Bing Crosby duet, "Little Drummer Boy/Peace on Earth."

The windows in Ianto’s living room have gone frosty, the droplets of rain freezing into ice crystals as they are battered with a sudden chill wind. He’d refrained from turning the heat on for the past week, despite the trumpet of cold that had announced winter’s arrival. No helping it now, though. 

He puts away his box cutter (Torchwood issue, smooth black and appropriately stamped – the metal of the blade is quite possibly an alien alloy, but he hasn’t bothered to check; it cuts through packaging tape rather nicely and that’s all that matters) and kneels on the floor, surrounded by plain brown boxes with little swooshy arrows on the sides.

There’s Christmas music playing lightly in the background, because these things need to be done properly. He pauses to listen and smiles a little. Bing Crosby. Something Jack had demanded be added to Ianto’s paltry holiday collection last Christmas after hearing an endless stream of Trans-Siberian Orchestra.

“Look, they’re fine,” Jack had said. “Good, even. But you need something classic. Timeless.”

In retrospect, Ianto wonders if Jack had been talking about himself. Still, Mr. Crosby had found his way into Ianto’s stash and Jack had been proud. His only complaint had been about that Drummer Boy duet with David Bowie, which Ianto found to be a rather strange thing to object to. In fact, he had thought that Jack would adore it. He still doesn’t know what the problem is; Jack is tight-lipped on the subject. Doesn’t matter. Ianto quite likes it. Maybe he’ll keep it on repeat for the next week.

He laughs to himself as he rummages through the boxes and sorts their contents, making tidy piles and placing them back into their temporary storage. He stacks each box up in an empty corner in his living room until they tower over his head. As he settles himself on the sofa, he hears a key turn in the lock and breathes a quiet sigh of relief. Just in time, then.

Jack bustles in, a burst of cold at his back that filters into the room, making Ianto shiver. Jack’s cheeks are a little red and his eyes are bright. He fumbles with the door while he clutches a heavy bag of takeaway and tries to kick off his boots. There’s a small stack of mail, most appropriately Christmas card sized, between his lips. Ianto raises an eyebrow. 

Grunting a vague greeting, Jack stomps into the kitchen. Ianto hears the thump-and-rustle of the bag hitting the counter and the rattle of plates in the cabinet.

“Was a time you would’ve helped me,” Jack calls, mournfully.

Ianto snorts. “Was also a time you didn’t just walk into my flat like you lived here too.”

“Point. You like papadams, right?”

Ianto snorts again, and then just gives up and laughs. “Did you order the wrong thing again?”

“Nope!” Jack says triumphantly. “I just doubled up on the papadams and the pakoras and hoped for the best.”

“Bring the papadams to work. Gwen likes to snack on them sometimes.”

“Wait, are those –” 

“The flat, crispy things. Yes, Jack.”

“Got it.”

A minute later, Jack emerges with two heaping plates of warm food and bottles of beer tucked under his arms. Ianto turns on the telly and lets Jack settle everything on the coffee table.

“Why am I catering to your every whim again?” Jack asks as he settles next to Ianto on the sofa. “Hi, by the way.”

“I cater to your whims in _your_ home, only right you should return the favor. And hi yourself.”

“Fine. But I’m not feeding you.”

“God, no.”

Ianto flips through the channels until he finds something old and festive, the kind of black-and-white with an overture and ornate opening credits. He squints at it, trying to place the film.

“This okay?” he asks after a moment.

“As long as it’s not _It’s A Wonderful Life_. That movie gives me nightmares.” Jack gives an elaborate, exaggerated shudder and almost succeeds in tipping over his plate.

“Only you,” Ianto mutters and starts to eat.

The food is good, warm and spicy and filling, and they sit in silence while watching the movie. It’s one of those madcap comedies complete with falsified identities, constant references to the war, and absolutely brilliant character actors portraying out-of-date stereotypes. Ianto finds it charmingly sweet, and is a little disgusted with himself for it.

“She was a lesbian, you know,” Jack says as the credits begin to roll and their food hardens to their plates.

“I’m happy for her,” Ianto says and stands, stretching his back before collecting their plates and silverware. “Are there leftovers?”

“Yeah. Actually, you might need another refrigerator.”

Ianto sighs. “I’ll pack some up for Gwen tomorrow. She likes this place.”

He eyes the containers that litter the countertop warily, and frowns at the bits of food that have found their way onto the once-clean surface. Curry stains something awful, so he drops the dishes into the sink and proceeds to tidy up the food. His refrigerator has plenty of room, thankfully, even with Jack’s propensity to over order. Ianto is pretty sure that it’s a wicked plot to keep him properly fed. Like the movie, it’s also charmingly sweet, and Ianto is now convinced that the holidays have completely taken over his brain.

When he’s finished, he runs the dishes under hot water and scrubs them a little. As he’s placing them in the dishwasher, Jack calls from the living room.

“Are you moving?”

Ianto can hear the worried undercurrent to Jack’s practiced casual tone and blinks repeatedly. He settles the bits of silverware into their container and shuts the dishwasher door.

“Of course not,” he says and walks into the room. “Why would you ask that?”

Jack is eyeing the boxes like they’re alien and prone to attack at any moment. He points to them, and Ianto is reminded of the third ghost of _A Christmas Carol_ (the Mr. Magoo version, unfortunately, because his childhood dictates that that’s always going to be the first one to spring to mind).

“Christmas presents,” Ianto says, shrugging and slumping back onto the sofa.

It’s pretty incredible how quickly Jack’s face goes from wary to exuberant. He practically bounces to the tower like an eager kid and stands on his toes to try to peer in. He almost knocks them all over in his effort and Ianto sighs, loudly.

“There’s nothing for you in there,” he warns, “so you can go ahead and look if you’re so curious.”

Jack’s face shifts again, this time into a mock pout that, despite being so irritating, Ianto is tempted to kiss away. Bloody holiday cheer. Jack is practically pawing at the boxes, still looking curious, and the last thing Ianto wants is for him to tear through everything and mess up his pristine organization.

“Some things for my sister and her family,” he explains as he flips through the channels some more, repeatedly making full rotations. “And I couldn’t decide what to get Gwen, so I got her a couple of things. Italian leather gloves and those boots she’s been eyeing.”

“The ones in that picture she keeps subtly taping up all over the Hub?”

“Yep.”

“I was going to get her those!”

“Tough.”

“I’ll pay you for half of them and they can be from both of us,” Jack says, though there’s enough hesitation in it to turn it into a question.

Ianto pauses than nods. “Sure,” he says and bites his lip, deciding to change the subject quickly. “I also got her and Rhys season tickets to the symphony. She keeps saying she wants to go; maybe she’ll make a performance or two.”

“You spoil her.” 

Jack sits back down on the sofa and leans back.

“Hm, maybe. Oh, and I got Rhys box seats to the rugby for the season, too. And then the obligatory gifts to the people that you offend on a regular basis.”

“Where are you getting all of this money?”

Ianto raises an eyebrow. “Who does the Torchwood payroll, Jack?”

Laughing, Jack shifts closer and rests his head on Ianto’s shoulder. Without thinking, Ianto makes room to accommodate him and they watch as a tiny self-conscious reindeer makes his way into the hearts of children everywhere. Ianto now suspects alien influence – nothing else could possibly make him feel this damn _fuzzy_.

“It’s cold outside,” Jack states when the short film ends. 

“Well, it’s mid-December.”

“Do you have cocoa?”

Ianto shrugs and doesn’t move, his eyes glued to the telly with all its jingling and jangling and promises of an endless stream of Christmas specials. 

Jack sighs. “Right. Catering to you. I’ll go check.”

Ianto feels the movement in the sofa and the sudden lack of warmth that makes him shiver. He really should get to turning on the heat. Or at least grab a throw. But that would be too domestic, wouldn’t it?

“Found some! Want a cup? We have milk, right?”

 _We?_ Ianto thinks. “Yeah, there’s half a container left. And could you turn on the heat on your way back?”

Jack mutters and Ianto’s pretty sure he hears the words “lazy prick.” He laughs and stretches out across the sofa, mostly to prove a point.

“Would you like me to peel some grapes for you, too?” Jack calls.

“I don’t have any, but if you want to run out to the shops, I wouldn’t complain.”

A dishtowel, covered in a distasteful holly pattern ( _Lisa’s_ , he reminds himself without thinking), pelts him in the face. It smells vaguely of milk and it’s a little damp. He laughs again and throws it back, narrowly missing Jack’s shoulder.

”Heat’s on,” Jack announces and sets the mugs on cork coasters. As if responding to their summons, the pipes began to clank in their comforting rhythm.

“Mmm.”

Ianto sits up and makes room for Jack again, without prompting. Now there’s something playing on the screen about an elf; it looks newer, and Ianto doesn’t recognize it. It feels a bit sacrilegious to be watching it. 

“You need a tree,” Jack says after a moment.

“Needles.” 

Ianto takes a cautious sip of his cocoa and smiles a little over the rim of the mug. It’s thick as syrup and overly sweet, but it’s good all the same. 

“A fake one, then.”

Ianto shoots him a look that he hopes adequately conveys ‘I will never stoop so low as to harbor a fake tree in my home, thank you very much.’ It works, because Jack holds up his hands in surrender.

“Okay, okay,” he says. “If I clean up the pine needles, will you get a real tree?”

So _Jack_ wants a tree. Well then. He sighs. “I’ll think about it.”

Jack beams at him and Ianto can’t help but smile back. Ianto flips the channel again and checks the weather report. There’s the vague promise of snow flurries, which means they’ll get absolutely nothing or a debilitating blizzard. Not that they’ve had a debilitating blizzard recently, but he has learned not to rule anything out. The temperature looks to be dropping as the week progresses. His heart sinks, resigned. Not only has he lost the battle with the heater, but the war as well.

“You know,” Jack says after a moment, “I can help you wrap your gifts if you want.”

Ianto flinches, involuntarily. Jack must’ve caught the movement because he laughs.

“I’ll have you know,” he continues, wagging a finger while leering, “that I have perfected the art of wrapping packages.”

Ianto cringes at the innuendo at the same time that he realizes that he wouldn’t know about this supposed art of Jack’s – they’ve never once given each other a present.

“I’ll let you know,” Ianto says.

“You really didn’t get me anything?”

“Not a thing.” He tries hard not to laugh at the crestfallen look on Jack’s face.

“But you got stuff for Gwen! And _Rhys_!”

“That’s my best friend and her husband. You’re my boss,” Ianto counters. “I suppose I could get you a tie. Or maybe one of those atrocious ‘World’s Best Boss’ mugs. Would you like that?” 

Jack scowls and looks at the floor. He looks back up quickly, a grin on his face, and before Ianto knows what’s happening, his feet are captured.

“Don’t you fucking dare, Harkness,” Ianto growls and Jack laughs.

“Nothing, Ianto? You sure?” Jack makes threatening gestures with his fingers.

“Like I said, not a thing.” Ianto can’t stop the telling smirk that crosses his lips.

“Aha!” Jack cries. “I knew it. You’re an awful liar, you know that?”

Ianto generally disagrees, but in the spirit of the mood that has overtaken both of them, he nods and smiles. 

“Good,” Jack says, surprisingly quiet and looking almost a little sheepish. “I’m glad you did. Because I’d feel like an idiot otherwise.”

Ianto’s feet apparently forgotten, Jack pushes him further back against the sofa and shuffles on top of him. He kisses Ianto’s jaw, his cheek, then his lips. They’re soft at first, and Jack tastes of spices and perfume, of the Silk Road, and that’s a _really_ ridiculous thought. Soon, though, it amps up into something else entirely until Jack is tugging at Ianto’s trousers.

The only downside to all of this, Ianto realizes, is that now he’s going to have to buy a pair of swank boots, two season passes to the symphony, box seats to the rugby, and something pretty damn incredible for Jack. Ah, well. At least now he knows for sure. 

“Bed,” Ianto manages when they both pull away for air, foreheads resting against each other. 

Jack tugs him up off the sofa and pulls him close. “You know,” he says, “you’re going to have to move the boxes tomorrow.”

Ianto frowns. “Why?”

“Where else are we going to put the tree?”


End file.
